A First Time for Everything
by Damagoed
Summary: Everyone has a first time. The first time goes a long way to explain all the other times. Mature Themes.
1. Mycroft

Mycroft had been thirteen when it first happened. At school, watching the game of rugby he was supposed to be taking part in. Of course, Mycroft's idea of taking part in any sporting activity was to stay as far away from the ball as possible. His white shorts were still pristine and only one single fleck of mud adhered to his red and white hooped socks. The other boys would never pass the ball to him. It was an unwritten rule. So Mycroft watched, with bored detachment before eventually retreating into the one place where the mud and cold and the blank faces of his fellow students couldn't reach him. His mind.

The games-master looked across at the tall boy, standing alone on the very edge of the rugby field. Mycroft was one of the tallest boys in his year, but unlike his fellow giants, he hadn't outgrown his coordination and moved with a careful grace and economy. The boy had quite a good athletic build and if only he'd apply himself he might have excelled at sports the way he seemed to excel at everything else. They'd tried to get him interested of course, but Mycroft was having none of it.

He was a quiet boy. Almost too quiet. He never showed off, or gave any hint of the brain power he possessed, until he turned in yet another perfect piece of class-work. It was easy to overlook a boy like Mycroft whose talents had no obvious application. Especially when there were other boys, with bright, burning talent, such as William Colby, who was currently tearing down the wing leaving his fellow players standing dumbly.

A shout went up. Someone yelled at Mycroft to stop him. Mycroft, barely registering the existence of the world outside of his head made no move to intervene. But even so, William Colby ran into him. Both boys went to the floor, Colby as though he had just run into a brick wall, Mycroft more gracefully until he was sat in the mud, those clean white shorts now smeared with playing field.

William Colby, despite his abilities on the sports field, was a bad loser. Immediately he was up and on Mycroft, angrily shouting at what he called clearly thought was a bad tackle. When Mycroft's only response was to stare at him blankly, Colby snapped and rained down punches on him, until the tall, pale boy's face was a mess of blood.

The school sanatorium was bright and warm and matron, in her clean white uniform looked with some concern as she cleaned up her young patient. It seemed his nose had borne the brunt of the attack and was broken quite badly. Mycroft stared quietly ahead, his brow furrowed with pain, but making no noise. No tears. Just the bright blue eyes registering something. She assumed the boy was in shock. Otherwise, he was bored. And that was slightly unnerving.

He had politely declined any pain relief, his voice low and gentle and already broken. Matron left him to put on clean pyjamas and get into bed. She went to call the School Doctor.

Mycroft removed his filthy games kit, placing each item carefully in the laundry basket and pulled on the pale blue pyjama trousers. His nose hurt. And so did his ribs. But there was something else.

Mycroft knew what an erection was, of course, but he'd never experienced one. Or at least not whilst he was awake. Now, however, the evidence was plain to see. His penis was thick and veiny, jutting out of the dark red curls of his pubic hair, curving gracefully upwards, the tip perhaps an inch above his belly button. A single drop of gooey fluid dripped from the end. His balls felt tight and heavy and swollen. He slid into bed quickly.

He fingered his damaged nose gingerly, sending little sharp sparks of pain into some inner part of his head. The pain did nothing to diminish his arousal. If anything, the feeling in his groin intensified.

Interesting.

He placed a hand experimentally over his groin. The flesh was hot, solid, tingling. He pushed against the broken bridge of his nose with his free hand. Bright flashes of pleasure went off behind his closed eyes. Synapses and chemicals he had been unaware of began firing and mixing. His groin stretched, his hand clamped tight around the hot length and thick, milky fluid gouted from the end of his penis.

He collapsed back against the pillows. One hand clutching his still swollen cock, the other not quite daring to touch his painfully smashed nose again. He looked downwards, wiped his hand on his sticky belly and smiled.

Xx

Finally, finally, Mycroft was able to relax. James Moriarty was dead. Sherlock was dead. Or at least everyone thought Sherlock was dead. And now he was safe. Mycroft ignored the strange looks he had been getting at work. The swift glances side wards. He had ignored the boring headlines in the tabloids and the lyrical waxing of the broadsheets. But now, as he sat in The Diogenes Club, he was unable to ignore the pressure that had been coiling up in him for some months.

Any normal man would have hired someone. An escort, he believed the diplomatic term for it was. He could, he supposed, even have found himself a partner. The word partner made him shudder slightly. But he doubted very much if any partner would have tolerated his hours, moods and other predilections. And besides, a partner might have expected him to care.

He stood, silently and went to his office. Quiet. Soundproofed. In a backstairs corner of the club away from everyone and everything. He removed his jacket, waistcoat and tie. He carefully placed his cufflinks in the valet tray on the desk, with his pocket watch and mobile phone. He slipped the braces from his shoulders and undid his trousers. He poured himself a large brandy and made certain he had a towel, for afterwards.

He looked at the heavy wooden cabinet behind his desk. Smiling to himself as he opened the door. His cock had begun to harden in anticipation. And with no more thought than if he had been selecting a book from the shelves; Mycroft Holmes slammed the door's hidden metal edge on his left hand.

For a moment there was nothing. Then a delightful, warming bloom of pain began to creep up his arm. Mycroft sighed and settled into his chair. Cock in his right hand, flexing the broken bones of his left.

Mycroft had never forgotten his first time.


	2. Sherlock

Sherlock's first time wasn't. But he'd deleted the many first times before that. And no one was counting. Except Mycroft of course.

The first first time had been at school. It hadn't been entirely consensual. But neither had Sherlock at any point asked his would-be lover to stop or said no. He had regarded it as a curious experiment. He repeated the curious experiment several times before drawing the conclusion that his data set was insufficient and deleting it all. James, the would-be lover, had been quite heartbroken about it, he'd been a sensitive, clever boy with stormy eyes who didn't understand how one day, just when he thought he was getting somewhere, he had been dumped. Forgotten and abandoned like a favourite toy a child had become bored with. James never really got over it.

The second first time had been at University. Vic was bigger and less intense than James. Not that Sherlock remembered in order to be able to do a comparison in any case. Vic was a bit like an affectionate Labrador that fawned all over Sherlock, told him he was beautiful and wanted sex in odd places. It went on for some time before, on his third heroin high, Sherlock deleted the lot. The following morning at breakfast Sherlock announced to the college that Vic had been shagging the night before. Vic was too much of a gentleman, and rather too confused to divulge that it had actually been Sherlock he had been shagging.

The third first time Sherlock had not had to delete. He never remembered it to begin with. Occasionally flashes of a dirty mattress and the smell of sweat and rat piss flickered across his thoughts and was dismissed. High. Veins screaming despite the drugs running through them, crying out for more. Used needles crunching on the floor and the play-doh face of someone he didn't know who was just as high as he was looming large above him. It was shame he couldn't remember this one in some ways. The drugs stripped all the veneer away. All the lies and pretence until Sherlock was naked on the filthy mattress, emaciated and dying but at the same time more alive than he had ever been before or since.

The fourth first time probably counted as a first first time as well, as it was with a woman. The Woman. As she had dominated him and slapped him and stripped him and drugged him. And then she'd had him. And he had been unable to do anything. His intellect shredded and useless, discarded along with his boxer shorts in a crumpled heap. Clever didn't matter. Reason didn't matter. All that mattered was him and her. For that moment. Afterwards he had been so horrified, so afraid of those feelings she had seen dancing through him that he deleted it all. Almost all. But before he did, he'd told Mycroft. Mycroft already knew, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Mycroft would remember, so he didn't have to. He knew she was always The Woman. But he couldn't remember why.

And then of course was the first time he did remember. Which was ironic as it was the only first time that had never actually happened. But the human brain is a powerful thing. And the brain of a genius more powerful still. So powerful it could change reality.

The first time with John Watson. When finally they slipped into the cool linen of that single bed. The landlord had apologised he didn't have a double room. It didn't matter. It was just as sweet. John offering comfort. Sherlock taking it. The slow movements becoming rapid, the ghosts of John's touch becoming solid and real. Sherlock surrendered his fictional virginity. Gladly. Willingly. Feeling his release. Feeling the pieces of his life's puzzle slotting into place. It all made sense.

The first time with John was the only time Mycroft didn't seem to know about. Perhaps he had deleted accidently? But Sherlock would always remember.


	3. John

John's first time was very complicated. So to put it simply: there wasn't one.

There were lots of half hearted attempts. Some full on assaults. Some heavy petting and a lot of breathless groping. But the truth of it was, when John "Three Continents" Watson had met Sherlock Holmes, he was a forty year old virgin.

It wasn't through want of trying. Which is how he had come to have the reputation he did. Girls loved John Watson. The adored him. Couldn't get enough of him. He was smart and funny and cute and considerate and hunky and dangerous and a hundred other rather nice things all in one handy sized package they could take home to meet their mums.

But he never seemed to get to the final act. At first it had been nerves. And practicalities. And because he was a gentleman. And even as a teenager, if the young lady had said no, then that was that. And there had been the times with too much alcohol at University when it had been a challenge just finding the floor. And all the other times when John had been foiled by fire alarms, tampons and lack of privacy. The list went on. It was as though the universe didn't want him to lose his virginity.

And there had been that one time when John had almost done it. The closest he'd ever got, only to discover at the last moment that "Lana" was actually a bank clerk called Gerald. He'd been able to laugh about it once he'd got over the initial shock. Although he had switched banks shortly afterwards.

John told himself it didn't matter. That no one could tell just by looking at him. Until he met Sherlock Holmes. Until he met Sherlock's big brother. Then it mattered a great deal.

In the restaurant, when Sherlock had told him he was married to his work, John took a check of himself. Was he coming across as desperate? Was that it? Was he coming across as gay? Did they all think he was gay? And then when Mycroft took hold of his hand. The brief flick of amusement brightening those blue shark's eyes. What had he been able to tell just by taking John's hand? Could he tell?

John had got flustered and angry and had tried to hit on Mycroft's assistant. It hadn't worked. Did she know too?

And then something terrible had happened. John Watson had met Jim Moriarty. Well more correctly, Jim had abducted him. And somehow Jim knew. He had Shark's eyes too. But black. All seeing, all knowing, unfeeling. And he'd laughed. And then he'd drugged John. And then he'd taken John. And then let John take him. At any point, John could have overpowered him and run away. But he didn't.

And somewhere, dimly at the back of John's mind, he hated it. But nearer the front he enjoyed it. Almost.

Even when he'd been strapped into the explosives. Even when he'd seen Sherlock's face. Even when he thought Sherlock might have known exactly what was going on. Even then. Almost. John couldn't help but be a little pleased. And relieved.

And afterwards. Much later on when it was all over he realised it had never been about him. Jim Moriarty had only done it to annoy Sherlock. In a way, Jim had taken Sherlock's virginity. Not John's.

John realised in that moment. Still a virgin. And he didn't care anymore. As Mycroft was so fond of saying, caring wasn't an advantage.


End file.
